


Talking To Myself

by regionals



Category: Stranger Things (TV 2016)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Angst, Billy Hargrove-centric, Friends to Lovers, Homophobic Language, Implied/Referenced Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, M/M, Mutual Pining, Neil Hargrove Being an Asshole, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, POV Alternating, Period Typical Attitudes, Physical Abuse, Recreational Drug Use, Slow Burn, Underage Drinking, Underage Smoking, Unreliable Narrator
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-05-19
Updated: 2020-06-03
Packaged: 2021-03-02 17:00:35
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 19,216
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24260221
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/regionals/pseuds/regionals
Summary: #1 - 8.84 - I could just tell that stupid guidance counselor I'm writing in this and throw it away. She would never know. It would be the perfect crime. I could go on being "troubled" in secret.title fromTalking to Myselfby Watsky
Relationships: Billy Hargrove & Steve Harrington, Billy Hargrove/Steve Harrington
Comments: 12
Kudos: 51





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> if anyone wants to know why i havent posted any actual decent Long fics since slug tracks in january? this is why

Steve’s looking for his keys. Tommy’s apartment is a fucking mess from last night’s _Friend Night,_ as Heather had dubbed it, and he figures his keys must have fallen out of the pocket of his jacket. There’s a substantial amount of frantically looking around while stepping over bodies and trying not to wake anyone that’s still there before he finds his keys, and after he finds his keys, he finds something else.

His keys are on the floor next to where everyone’s collectively decided that shoes are supposed to go for the night, and the thing he finds — a leather-bound journal — is under one of Robin’s boots. He flips it open to a random page, reads a few words, enough to know that it’s not his, Robin’s, Tommy’s, or Nancy’s, just judging by the handwriting. 

And, yeah, it’s against his better judgment to take the journal, but the entry he’s opened up to piques his interest. If worse comes to worst, he decides he can find a way to get the journal back to its owner without ever giving himself away.

*

Billy’s instructions were clear. He doesn’t know who, exactly, they came from — probably someone from the school — but he knows that the first thing he’s supposed to do, not the second or the third or whatever other number, upon arriving at this sad, rural little school, is to head straight for the guidance counselor’s office.

She’s a nonthreatening lady, as most guidance counselors are in his experience. She shakes his hand and introductions are kept fairly short. “There’s been some communication between myself and the counselor at your last school,” She explains.

Billy tries saying something to appease her; “I’ll be on my best behavior, ma’am.”

She smiles, like she’d be glad to let him go if she didn’t have a job to do. She says, “I have something for you,” as she’s pulling what turns out to be a leather-bound journal from her desk drawer. “It’s a journal,” She states, as if it isn’t blatantly obvious, when she hands it to him.

“I can see that. What am I supposed to do with it?”

“Write in it,” She tells him. “Use that journal as a _tool._ Once a day, maybe write down what you’re thinking, or a little something about your day.”

She doesn’t explicitly say it, but he knows what it’s for. This journal is some weird attempt at keeping him out of trouble; he can feel it. He isn’t sure what else to say to her, other than, “Um… Thank you, ma’am. I’ll… try my best.”

_That’s_ good enough for her, apparently, because she lets him go after that.

*

He doesn’t plan on writing in the journal regularly. 

He decides that _maybe_ if he has a _really_ bad day, or if something particularly interesting happens (which he doubts, because nothing interesting could possibly happen in rural Indiana) then he’ll write down a little something.

He does write one entry into the journal, prefaces it with a number, and the month and the year, just to christen it.

_#1 - 8.84 - I could just tell that stupid guidance counselor I'm writing in this and throw it away. She would never know. It would be the perfect crime. I could go on being "troubled" in secret._

He goes to the trouble of writing all of that down, yet he still hides the journal in the middle of the spare tire in his trunk.

*

“I’ll read enough of it to figure out who it belongs to, then I’ll give it back,” Steve mumbles quietly to himself as he’s sitting down on the floor next to his bed, leaning against it, with a bottle of beer and the journal a few nights after his discovery.

The first entry is inconspicuous enough. Whoever owns the journal has had it for four years, which isn’t an insubstantial amount of time. The second entry is pretty inconspicuous as well. It doesn’t really raise his eyebrows, but he puts away whatever information he’s able to glean from it for later.

_#2 - 9.84 - How does that fucking asshole expect me to find the time to babysit that woman's kid between all this stupid schooldwork? Go to college, he says. Take all these advanced courses, he and a bunch of high school faculty say. Actually, fuck going to college, just don't do your homework and perpetually babysit this middle schooler instead, he says._

He keeps going.

_#3 - 9.84 - He looked nice today, putting it lightly. How girly is this, using this stupid journal to write about a crush? I could hardly talk. Not like anything could have come of it. He has a girlfriend. And a lot of mutual friends. He is always around. Rest in peace █████ ████████, cause of death: exposure to that fucking ass of His._

_I probably shouldn’t write my name in this. I’m going to scribble that out pronto._

He traces his index finger over the spot where the mystery person scribbled out their own name. He wonders who the owner of the magnificent ass is, while simultaneously realizing that this is a pretty big invasion of privacy. He doesn’t feel bad enough to stop, not yet, so he takes a swig from his beer, and turns the page.

*

Billy’s looking for a spare lighter, since his Zippo crapped out on him and he doesn’t have the means to refill it right now. The first spot he looks is in the glovebox of his car. He finds a few cheap Bic lighters — the ones he keeps as spares — and the _journal._ He picks it up long enough to look at it and to consider it, before throwing it into the passenger’s seat.

He lights the cigarette dangling out of his mouth, then rummages through the glove box some more until his fingers make contact with a pen. After that, he props his knee up on his steering wheel and uses his thigh as a hard surface to write on as he writes the fourth entry in the journal.

_#4 - 10.84 - Forgot this journal was a thing until I found it in my glove box just now. Party tonight. I bet it's going to be boring as fuck. █████ said it was going to be fun, but I’m preemptively calling bullshit._

He scribbles out Carol’s name as soon as he writes it. He really _doesn't_ want to go to the party, but he doesn't want to come off as some sort of weird recluse, so his mind's pretty much made up.

_*_

Billy’s sitting with his head between his knees, next to one of Tina’s shrubs — not the one he threw up in, though — when Steve Harrington comes storming out of the house. He does look up when he hears the door swing open and slam shut. His head is spinning and he figures he has another twenty minutes of sitting to do before he’s good to get up and go find water, but he’s pretty sure that it’s Steve Harrington standing across the yard, fumbling with his keys, trying to get into his car.

He heard Steve and Nancy having a shouting match when he was in the house, before having to make a mad dash for the nearest shrub, and he’s maybe a little surprised that Steve’s the one standing outside _crying_ while he tries and fails to unlock his car.

Billy doesn’t move or say or do anything. He stays as still as he can, and just watches. He knows he’s witnessing something private. A crack in the facade that is ‘King Steve.’ It’s bordering on voyeuristic, he thinks. Someone only cries like that when they’ve been dumped or publicly humiliated, and Billy’s willing to bet that Steve’s been both tonight.

*

_#5 - 10.84 - It was not. Reminder: no more keg stand competitions. Not worth the hangover. Or throwing up all over ████’s shrubs. I don’t think anyone saw me, thank God. I also think He and his girlfriend broke up? She was yelling and I’m pretty sure I saw him cry. I was also fucked up beyond belief so who knows what I saw. Farm kids definitely know how to party._

*

It’s not a coincidence that Nancy starts dating Jonathan Byers the week after she dumps Steve.

Steve _knows,_ because he’s not as stupid as people like to think he is. Nancy’s been avoiding him for a few months now, avoiding him in the way to where he’s hardly been able to get a moment alone with her, so _yeah,_ he knows it’s not a fucking coincidence.

No one says anything when Nancy starts sitting at their table with Jonathan at her side instead of Steve, and he’s smart enough to also know that this only happens because Jonathan Byers sells better weed than Tommy does.

*

_#6 - 11.84 - Her new boyfriend is definitely a downgrade from Him but fuck if his weed isn’t effective. Also, who gets a new boyfriend in a week? Something smells hella fishy. No one’s bold enough to say it to his face I don’t think. He probably knows though._

*

For some reason, it’s entry number seven that gives Billy away, and Steve starts to seriously question why he didn’t figure it out after reading the second entry.

_#7 - 11.84 - I need to invest in a coat. Or maybe ████ will be feeling generous enough to let me wear one of his old work coats. Fucking Indiana, man._

The only person he knows of in 1984 that wouldn’t have owned a coat would be Billy. On top of that, the knowledge that Billy witnessed him _crying_ after Nancy dumped him — _god,_ how embarrassing. Billy also keeps a _journal._ Steve feels like a journal is something he should know about, because, yeah, they’re _friends,_ but he also has to consider that he probably wouldn’t go around advertising his own journal either.

He debates on closing the journal, and just mailing it to Billy as soon as he can. He can hear a voice in his head that sounds like Robin reminding him that, _“Curiosity killed the cat.”_

“But…” He chews on his cheek for a moment, and slowly turns the page. “Satisfaction brought it back.”

*

There’s a basketball game a few towns over, and Billy’s sitting near the back of the bus with Tommy and Steve on the way there. It’s _cold,_ and he feels as if he can’t pull his coat tight enough around himself. It’s a little too small for him, because it’s a coat his father, in a rare moment of decency and kindness, had decided to let him have. Billy knows he’s bigger now than he was the last time he had to borrow a coat from his dad, but _jeez._ He didn’t really think the guy was _that_ little.

Neil Hargrove is still not to be fucked with, though.

Billy’s drawn out of his thoughts when Steve reaches across the aisle to get his attention. He leans over and quietly says, “You look a little cold. It’s just chicken broth, but it’ll warm you up,” as he’s offering Billy his thermos. 

Steve’s expression is open and genuine. He looks like he’s genuinely concerned, and his face doesn’t falter. He’s wearing a turtleneck, and usually Billy isn’t a fan of turtlenecks, but he looks _good._ It makes him look — soft. Cozy. 

It’s a reflex; a first line of defense more than anything, but Billy quietly calls him a ‘fag,’ mumbles it, before he takes the thermos from him. 

Steve doesn’t seem offended. He rolls his eyes and mutters for him to just drink the fucking soup.

_#8 - 11.84 - I feel like every time I try talking to Him, I’m just putting my foot in my mouth. Over and over again. In other news, he looks good in a turtleneck, and I’m fucking gay_

*

Neil calls him a faggot when Billy asks him where the ice cream scoop is, since he needs it to scoop sugar cookie dough onto a parchment lined cookie sheet. Billy knows a few recipes out of necessity, one of which is his mom’s recipe for sugar cookies, and it’s a recipe that, for the past few years, he’s baked within that month of limbo between Thanksgiving and Christmas.

Of course, despite the slur, Billy still catches Neil eating sugar cookies like he’s a starving man once the cookies have had a substantial amount of time to cool and get crispy. Something about seeing his grubby fingers holding _his_ sugar cookies pisses him off, and has him marching out to his car with the journal in mind.

His hand shakes while he writes because he’s _mad,_ and his normally neat and pretty cursive ends up being quick and sloppy print with inconsistently capitalized letters.

_#9 - 12.84 - I may be a faggot for knowing how to bake sugar cookies but you’re still eating them you piece of shit. Who allowed him to become a parent? Fuck him. I’m gonna make someone a rocking housewife someday. I’m just training for it right now. It’s sad that I have to tell myself that to feel better._

*

Steve has not a single fucking clue what someone like Billy would want for Christmas. Billy’s been a staple of Steve’s friend group since the other boy had moved to Hawkins, and every year, Steve likes to get everyone a small present. He doesn’t do it to get anything in exchange, because he doesn’t _need_ anything. If anything, he just does it because seeing his friends smile makes him feel all warm and squishy inside, and he considers Billy a friend.

That, and Billy's smile is definitely something that makes Steve feel all warm and squishy inside.

Billy, though — Billy is prickly and stand-offish. Steve’s seen him crack a few times, seen him act like an actual person a few times, so he has no doubt that he’d at least privately enjoy a Christmas present. There’s still the issue of what to _get him,_ though, and Steve spends a few weeks trying to figure something out before he gets a sign from God.

The sign from God comes in the form of Billy’s sunglasses breaking the day before winter break starts, while on his face, and falling right smack dab in the middle of his hot lunch spaghetti. They just… _pop,_ then fall. There’s a moment of silence, a pregnant pause of _shock,_ when Billy’s sunglasses break, and as he’s picking his sunglasses out of the spaghetti, he says, “And class, that’s why we don’t fix metal sunglasses with superglue.”

Steve doesn’t give him his new sunglasses directly. He places them in an appropriately sized box, wraps it with newspaper, and writes, _“To Billy, from Steve,”_ on the top of it before passing it off to Max and asking her to get the gift to him.

*

_#10 - 12.84 - Sunglasses have to be the shittiest Christmas present but I think I’m going to wear them anyways. They aren’t ugly or anything and my old ones are literally still held together with superglue and willpower. What’s the point of this journal again?_

*

Entry eleven takes up the first line of a page.

_#11 - 1.85 - He's so fucking pretty._

Steve’s heart is pounding as his eyes read Billy’s cursive over and over. It doesn’t take him much longer than it takes him to figure out whose journal this is for him to figure out that he himself is the owner of the aforementioned magnificent ass. He wouldn’t say that it’s _weird_ that Billy’s had a crush on him for so long, but it’s definitely unexpected, and it’s something that he sort of wishes he would have known about.

*

Susan and Neil are both still at work when Billy gets home from school sometime in the middle of January. He still enters the house quietly, though, just like he would if they _were_ home, which he guesses is why Max startles when he opens her bedroom door to ask her if she wants him to make her something to eat before he fucks off for the evening. Not that he really _wants_ to cook anything right now, but he’s supposed to make sure she eats something, according to both of their respective parents, so he asks just in case. Usually, she just says, “I’m fine,” and Billy normally leaves it at that, but —

She’s crying, and she’s not one of those girls that cries all delicately and sweetly. Her cheeks are splotchy and irritated, her eyes are puffy, red, and swollen, and there’s used tissues scattered around all over her bed. Instead of telling him she’s not hungry, she asks, “Why are boys so _shitty?”_ in a tone that’s bordering on hysterical while giving him this intensely _angry_ sort of look.

If Billy weren’t caught way the fuck off guard by this situation, he might have laughed, but he’s so caught off guard that he asks, “What the fuck happened?”

Her voice goes all high pitched as she half-wails, half-chokes out, “Lucas _dumped me.”_

And, _oh._

“Lucas _dumped me,_ and I can’t even be upset about it because —” She pauses to suck snot through her nose, “— because of your shitty dad.”

Billy doesn’t remember the names of Max’s friends — except for Will, if only because they have the same name — but judging by _that,_ he can figure out which one Lucas is pretty fast. Neil is nothing if not _readable,_ and it isn’t exactly a secret that he’s, in general, politically stuck in the 1800s. He asks, “Why’d he do that?” from where he stands in her doorway.

She blubbers through explaining that they had a _fight,_ and that he was being a jerk, while Billy tries his best to keep from rolling his eyes. He’s sympathetic and all, but she’s barely fourteen.

She asks him again, “Why are they all so _shitty?”_

And in a rare moment of honesty, he tells her, “I’m going to be real with you here, but boys are stupid, and they won’t _stop_ being stupid. _Middle school_ boys are especially stupid, though, and… I mean, c’mon.” He tries his best to subtly shift the tone of his voice, to give away that he’s sort of joking, but trying his best to be supportive, because, _yeah,_ he fucking gets boy troubles. Not that she’d know, of course. “You’re a smart girl. You shouldn’t be wasting your energy on some dumb boy.”

Max sniffles, and throws a crumpled up tissue across the room as if it offended her. It takes her about half a minute before she begrudgingly agrees with him.

*

Later, long after dark, after their respective parents are in bed, he decides he’s gunning for Big Brother Of The Year. He moves around his room quietly, putting his jeans from that day back on, and putting on the first sweatshirt his hand touches. He doesn’t put his shoes on, because it’s easier to sneak through the house with socks on, but he does grab them and his usual pocket contents (lighter, smokes, wallet, keys) on his way out of his room. 

Max looks — _alarmed,_ or close to it, when Billy slips into her room to whisper at her to get dressed, to open her window so they can get back in (and also because he’s too lazy to go back in his room and open his own window), and to grab her shoes — but not to put them on. She asks _why,_ and he shushes her; “Just hurry up, before one of them wakes up.”

He stands in the hall while she’s doing what he told her to do, and as soon as she exits her room, he leads the way. 

The easiest way out of this house without waking Neil is through the crawlspace. He’s pretty sure Max doesn’t know about the crawlspace, but she gets the hint to go with it when he puts his finger up to his lips. 

The entrance into the crawlspace is in the pantry — a two and a half by two and a half square foot hole — and a little lock lube on the hinges of the trapdoor makes it open virtually soundless. After that, it's a matter of finding a vent either of them can squeeze through.

It’s when they’re about halfway down the front lawn, both of them with their shoes _on,_ that Max whisper-shouts at him to ask, “What the _hell_ are we doing?”

He turns his head to whisper-shout back to her from over his shoulder, “Sneaking out!”

The conversation continues as soon as they’re both sitting in his car. “Why are we sneaking out? Like — what the hell, Billy?”

“Are we in agreement that you’ve had a bad day?”

She does a little gesture, a nonverbal _duh._

“That’s why.”

“Great, my boyfriend dumped me, and my weirdo brother is now kidnapping me,” She jokes, or tries to, at least. Her heart isn’t in it.

Billy doesn’t say anything else, not right away. He reaches for the knob on his stereo that controls the volume, and turns it all the way down, not wanting to give himself away just before he’s in the clear, and does his best to start his car as quietly as possible.

At the end of the street sits a stop sign, and Billy lights a cigarette while he’s stopped at it. Max asks him, “Can I have one?” before he starts driving again.

His first reflex is to just hand her the one he just lit, but he rethinks it just as fast. “This isn’t your first one, right?”

She shakes her head. She also doesn’t elaborate on where she’s smoked before, though, which sort of makes him think she’s been stealing cigarettes from him. 

Once he has another one lit, and once they’re a few more streets away, he speaks again. “Susan doesn’t hear a word about this.”

“Are you joking? She’d kill me for smoking before she even thought about you.”

“At least I’ll have a heads up.”

The next stretch of silence lasts for three miles. She asks him, “Are we even going anywhere?”

“Not really,” is his answer. “Unless you want to go somewhere.” 

She shakes her head, and it’s awhile before she speaks again. “How do you — how do you hide stuff from him?”

“Are you asking for advice, or…?”

“Sort of? I mean that — I mean that it’s _hard._ It’s hard, because he always fucking _knows_ when you’re not in a good mood, or if there’s something going on, and it’s really hard to lie to him.”

She’s not wrong about that, either. Billy absolutely understands where she’s coming from, too, even if he doesn’t verbalize it. “You get used to it,” He says. “I find that it’s best to lie to him through omission. For… example, maybe I tell him I’m going to Tommy’s to work on homework, but really, I’m going to Tommy’s to work on homework and get high and drink beer.”

She nods, gently. “Right. I can’t exactly tell him that I’m hysterical over the only black guy in my school, though. There’s no way to rationalize that one to him.”

“Maybe don’t talk about Lucas in front of him, ever,” Billy mumbles. He feels like if he were a different person, he might tell her that he’s gay and that he’s basically in the same boat in regards to who he dates, but — 

He’s not a different person.

*

_#12 - 1.85 - I guess ██████ and her boyfriend broke up? I feel sort of bad for her, because she can’t even talk about it around ████. Not that he’d hate her for dating a boy, obviously, but he’d hate her for dating a black one. He’d also beat the shit out of me for ‘allowing it to happen,’ as if I didn’t just find out about it myself. (I don’t even give a shit? I don’t know why it matters so much.)_

_Adding on from earlier. We snuck out. Drove around for a while. I let her smoke, and she promised to keep her mouth shut, so that’s that, really. I’m pretty sure she’s been stealing cigarettes from me. She probably thinks I’m nuts for having such an elaborate technique for sneaking out, but ████’s like a fucking watchdog. I can’t not be elaborate._

_I can’t tell her myself because it’s honestly kind of fucking scary, but I wish she understood how much I get not being able to even casually mention anything about who you’re dating. My situation’s different I guess but I get how shitty is. It’s late and I’m — sad, I think? It’s close to sad but not quite._

*

Steve’s sitting in the hall with Billy during lunch, in front of Billy’s locker, both of them with their trays. They don’t really _talk,_ mostly because up until now Steve’s been under the assumption that Billy doesn’t really like him, but — that is not true, as he’s come to realize.

Billy does like him, at least enough to share a box of chocolates he got from some girl with him, under the guise of, “I got so much of this shit, man. I can’t eat it on my own.”

Sharing the chocolate works, too. Steve hates the coconut and fudge ones, doesn’t really care for the caramel ones, but he _really_ loves the orange and raspberry filled ones, whereas Billy’s about the opposite, so it _works._

Steve’s more than happy to take the fruit flavored ones from him, and Billy’s content eating the rest of them. He even mumbles at some point, with a sly little smile on his face, “I can’t believe you actually like the fruit ones. You have to be the only person I’ve met who likes that shit.”

“I love them,” comes his quiet response as he’s picking out another one, and breaking it in half, into smaller bites. “My mom, uh, went to some… tropical country, or something, a few years ago because her and my dad were fighting, and she mailed me these, like… Super expensive candied orange slices dipped in chocolate? Since then, I’ve had a taste for shitty fruit flavored chocolates like that.”

“That sounds like it _could_ be good, actually. Maybe if I eat the mysterious candied oranges, I’ll start liking those abominations too,” Billy jokes. “I just don’t like how chocolate and fruit taste together, usually. Chocolate’s just… so bitter. It doesn’t work.”

“Not even chocolate covered strawberries?”

Billy does a fake-gag, and brushes his hair out of his face with his hand, since his fake-gag was actually kind of dramatic. “Hell no. I’ll throw dehydrated strawberries a bone, but… Not fresh ones, man. Never fresh ones.”

“Well… If you get any more fruit chocolates, I’m more than happy to eat them for you.”

Billy snorts, and the subject gets changed, but the next day Steve finds a Ziploc bag of fruit flavored chocolates in his locker, and a note, written in blocky print that reads; “ _You’re disgusting. Hope you enjoy.”_

*

_#13 - 2.85 - Is it frowned upon to take Valentine's chocolates from girls even if you're gay? Is it gay to share those chocolates with the straight guy you're hopelessly crushing on? Both answers are 'probably.'_

*

Billy knows that although the concept of spending a week in a cabin with Steve, Tommy, Carol, Nancy, and Nancy’s new boyfriend should be _fun,_ he also knows that in reality, it absolutely is not going to go over very well. He doesn’t want to tag along, but— 

Steve looked so eager when he suggested the idea to everyone, and, admittedly, a week without parental supervision _does_ sound nice… That, and he isn't about to turn down a chance to be near Steve for an entire week.

His nerves are going nuts the night before they’re supposed to pack into Steve’s and Carol’s cars, so he sits down at the foot of his bed with his journal open and resting on his thigh.

_#14 - 3.85 - Of course His parents have a cabin. Why the fuck wouldn't they? I don't think putting six teenagers in a cabin for a week is a good idea. "You know what would be fun for spring break? Hanging out in my parent's creepy cabin in the middle of fucking nowhere South Dakota."_

*

Steve shows up at eight in the morning that Saturday. Billy specifically told him — and Carol, who’s driving the other car — not to honk, and neither of them do. The last fucking thing he wants to do before disappearing for a week is to piss Neil off. Neil _knows_ he’s going, and Billy isn’t about to try testing him, because he doesn’t want to come home to him after he’s had a week to stew.

(With a screwdriver, Billy’s able to pop the casing from the console in his car off, and that’s where he keeps his journal for the week.)

Billy can’t put into words the relief he feels when he sees that Steve’s the only one in his car, and that Nancy and Jonathan are both in Carol’s car, looking uncomfortable as all fuck. Time alone with Steve and not having to make conversation with those two for the next twelve or so hours are both events that he welcomes with open arms.

Steve looks — good, for eight in the morning on a Saturday. He has sunglasses on, and his hair is tucked into his hat. He’s not wearing a coat, because it’s not that cold this morning, but he’s wearing a thick hoodie that looks a size or two too big. There’s two cups of gas station coffee in his cup holder, and he can see packets of sugar and half-and-half on Steve’s seat, in a pile between his legs.

Billy doesn’t comment on his appearance, because that’s _gay,_ but he does say, “Gimme two sugars and a half-and-half,” with a grunt as he takes a seat in Steve’s car with all the grace of a newborn deer.

Steve hands the packets over with a mumbled, “Morning,” followed by a tiny yawn. His yawn is quiet, and it’s — cute. It’s nice, having the opportunity to appreciate him like this. Billy wouldn’t ever verbalize any of the things he thinks about Steve, but he’s more than happy to privately think that he’s cute when he’s sleepy.

*

They’re in the car for maybe an hour when the radio starts cutting out, at which point, Steve moves his hand to gesture towards his glove box. “Don’t know if we like the same music, but I have some tapes if you wanna listen to anything.”

His music is — not nearly as bad as Billy was expecting. Of course, he jumps at the chance to rifle through Steve’s cassettes, if only just to know what he likes, to know more about him in general. Most of his tapes are mix tapes, of which, most are either titled with a number or a few words that describe the mood of the tape. Billy thinks it’s sort of endearing that he has so many tapes for so many different occasions and moods, but he _gets it,_ because music is its own kind of therapy.

He picks something that he knows is a little heavy on the guitars, and gently pushes it into the tape player with a few fingers. “Honestly, man… We mostly like the same shit, if that’s all you listen to."

“I have more at home,” He says. He chews the piece of gum in his mouth a little harder than he needs to for a few chews before continuing. “I used to have a box in my floorboard, but Nancy made me take it out of my car because it was in the way of her feet, I guess.”

“Her feet…” Billy rolls his eyes. “Man, if Nancy ever gets in my car, she can go fuck herself. The cassettes stay. Bitches don’t.”

Steve snorts and shakes his head. “I should put them back. I miss listening to more than the same handful of tapes over and over. Tommy’s been asking me where my good tapes are at anyways.”

“So, you force me to sit in your car for twelve hours, and you don’t even bring the good tapes…?” Billy’s teasing. “I’m offended.”

“Yep. My goal is to make you as miserable as fucking possible.” Steve smiles something sly at him, and Billy can’t stop himself from smiling back at him. Steve’s sly smile turns into a full grin, and Billy feels charmed.

*

Sunday is calm. Everyone is largely exhausted from spending the better part of the past day driving from Indiana to bumfuck South Dakota. Billy doesn’t know if he’d consider the trip worth it, but he’s not blind and he can appreciate how _scenic_ the Harrington cabin is. The only thing he can think of that _does_ make the trip worth it is the fact that he gets to share a room with Steve.

Billy’s fingers itch for his journal, because by now, it’s starting to become a reflex to start writing any time he has any sort of significant interaction with Steve.

Sharing a room with Steve isn’t _romantic,_ but it provides Billy with an opportunity to _learn_ about him. For example, he’s slow to wake up. When Billy wakes up, _he’s up,_ but Steve has to sit up on the edge of the bed, smacking his lips, yawning, and sometimes muttering gentle words of encouragement to himself under his breath for fifteen minutes before he’s ready to get up, otherwise he falls back asleep.

He thinks if Steve were to look at him right now, he’d probably get freaked out. He’s seen pictures of himself and he’s looked in the mirror; he knows he has one of those _stares_ that freaks people out, and that’s exactly what he’s doing – staring at Steve. Watching him. Trying to – figure him out, while he sits in the corner of the room smoking a cigarette.

He’s had crushes on his friends before, but Steve’s different, somehow. _Steve_ is fucking magnetic. Billy wants to play connect-the-fucking-dots with his moles. Who the hell _wants_ to do something like that? The weirdest thing is – he doesn’t _dislike_ feeling like this. In fact, he _loves_ feeling like this. He wishes he could grab fistfuls of whatever it is that Steve makes him feel.

*

One in the afternoon on Monday finds Billy hiding in the kitchen, drinking a mug of stale coffee and reading an old newspaper from the den. The newspaper is a little over six years old, judging by the date on the front, and he doubts there’s anything in it that’s going to prove relevant to his day, but it at least gives him something to do while he drinks his stale coffee.

It’s a little late for coffee, even stale coffee, but that’s all there is to drink besides tap water, and he also assumes that’s why Steve seeks him out and pesters him into grocery shopping.

If Steve were anyone else, Billy would tell him to get lost. He looks down at him, and he sort of looks like he’s _pouting._ He mutters something about everyone else being particularly sucky today, and, yeah —

Billy gets it. Steve just wants to get the fuck away from everyone for a bit. That, and he is obviously going to jump on any chance he gets to hang out with Steve anyways.

*

The nearest city is an hour away. Well — the nearest _town_ is maybe fifteen minutes away, but the nearest city is about an hour away. They drove through the nearest town on their way to the cabin, and from what Billy could see, grocery shopping options were _scant._

Billy asks him, once they’re on the other side of the small town with shitty grocery shopping options, “Why does everyone suck today?”

“Carol’s being a bitch,” is the first thing he blurts out. He has the back of his index finger pressed against the top of the bridge of his nose, looking like if someone said the wrong thing, he _would_ cry. “I asked if maybe she wanted to go with me, since she seems like the biggest adult, but as it turns out, she’s a fucking child. She called me _queer_ for wanting to feed everyone for the week.”

“She can starve, then.”

Steve snorts. “On top of _Carol,_ Tommy’s in a _mood._ He’s being a fuckin’ crab-apple. I can hardly look Nancy in the eye either, and I don’t need to tell you why I couldn’t possibly sit in a car with Jonathan fucking Byers for more than ten minutes, right?”

“You don’t need to tell me why, no.” Billy slouches down in his seat, and props a leg up on the dashboard. He sees Steve give him a look, but he doesn’t move his leg. “Why did you let Nancy — and her boyfriend — come, anyways? It’s your family’s cabin, and she’s your ex. It’s… mystifying.”

“Mystifying…” Steve sounds the word out slowly. “That’s a big word.”

“I haven’t sat through three years of AP English only to not use my big-boy words, Harrington.”

“That’s… fair, yeah.” Steve taps his fingers on his steering wheel, to the beat of the song playing from a mixtape, while he thinks. “I invited her because she’s still friends with everyone. It’d be shitty if I didn’t invite you, but invited everyone else, and she’s no different.”

“She cheated on you with _Jonathan Byers_ . You must have a fucking _massive_ aptitude for forgiveness.” Billy lets his head slowly tilt and turn towards Steve. “You must know about that.”

“I’m not stupid.” He frowns. Bites his cheek. “If she loves him, I can’t come between that, y’know?”

“I _guess,_ but… I don’t know, man. If a, uh… If someone did that to me… I mean, I wouldn’t want to keep them around.”

“I know, I know.” Steve sounds like he knows Billy’s at least sort of right. “It’s just… There’s a lot of… Moving parts in my friendship with her…? She’s not the only one who had problems when we were dating. We went through something kinda… traumatic together right when we first started dating, and on top of that — we didn’t love each other, not like _that,_ but she’s a good friend and we’re kinda trying to get back to being friends.”

Billy lets him talk; doesn’t bother interrupting him, or speaking a little too soon. Their breakup is still something that intrigues him, partly due to the fact that he was a witness to the immediate aftermath of it, and partly because of his _feelings._ He only speaks again when he’s sure Steve isn’t going to continue. “I haven’t really dated a ton of girls, so maybe it’s that, but _that_ sounds miserable.”

“Well, it’s not _not_ miserable.”

*

Billy feels — warm. Sleepy. _Drunk._ He’s under the blanket from the room he’s sharing with Steve for the week, bundled up, making himself as small as he can to fit nice and snug in the corner of the couch. It’s not easy.

There’s a movie playing on the TV, but Billy’s attention is more focused on _Steve._ He feels like an idiot. He’s just drunk enough to watch him while he sleeps through the movie, and his fingers twitch because honestly, he just wants to hold his fucking hand or something. It’s a disgusting feeling, all squishy and gooey.

*

It’s two in the morning on Wednesday. Technically it’s _Thursday,_ but it still feels like Wednesday. He is _plainly_ aware of the fact that he’s not supposed to be witnessing what he’s witnessing right now. Nancy’s sitting on the edge of the patio, legs dangling off the edge and a cigarette between her fingers. Her face is all wet and sticky and she looks so terribly _sad_.

Her gaze moves from the trees to _him,_ and he knows what he has to do. He’s going to feel like a fucking _tool_ if he just goes back inside, or walks around the side of the cabin to have his smoke and to get away from the noise, so — he walks across the patio, clears himself a spot in the inch or two of snow with his foot, and he sits down next to her, legs dangling off too.

He doesn’t say anything. She _does._ She tells him, “I was, uh, talking to the trees. Gotta figure they know some things, y’know? They’re large and old. I mean, I can’t imagine what these trees must have seen.”

She’s drunk. Three days is long enough for a group of teenagers to put a decent dent in the liquor Steve’s father left behind. Billy knows he could probably go back inside and get away with it, because he’s _positive_ Nancy knows he doesn’t care for her, but he still asks, “What were you talking to the trees about?”

He expects her to maybe change the subject or to deflect or something, but she just _says it;_ “I have to break up with Jonathan,” with a dramatic sigh at the end to flourish it.

He doesn’t ask why. “He’s kind of lame anyways, honestly.” He digs his thumbnail into the filter on his cigarette. "Be nice about it, though. He's the only decent dealer in that shitty cow-town."

"Even if I wasn't, your sister and his brother are friends. You still have an in, even without me."

Billy nods, and Nancy glances at him when he mumbles out, “Right.”

He thinks that maybe she’s done talking, because she’s silent for awhile, but when she finishes her own cigarette, he lights and offers her a new one. When she takes it, she says, “I don’t love him. I don’t — I don’t think I can.” Her tone has shifted, too, into something quieter, maybe contemplative. Sort of like she’s on the brink of a breakthrough.

“What do you mean?”

“I mean — I just mean that, like… I mean, it’s just all so _complicated,_ Billy.” She brings her cigarette to her lips and takes a deep drag from it, exhaling and watching the smoke drift off into oblivion. “I have… It’s like I have all of these… _feelings.”_ She’s nearly whispering, now. “I can’t put them into words. I can’t — I can’t love him. Or Steve, even. I tried so, _so_ hard with both of them, and I _can’t._ Not like that.”

The cherry falls off the tip of Billy’s cigarette, and he lets the rest of his smoke drop into the snow after it. He does not reach for a new one. He racks his brain for something to say, because the words spilling out of her mouth sound similar to the words he repeated to himself before realizing he just couldn’t fall in love with girls in the first place. “I’ve, uh… Y’know. Been with a few girls myself, but… The _feelings_ just are not there.”

He feels like he can see the gears in her brain shifting. She nods, and he’s pretty sure she understands what he’s saying. She passes the cigarette to him, mumbling something about not wanting it before saying something substantial back. “There has to be a man out there that I could be happy with.”

“Maybe there isn’t.” He keeps his tone fairly neutral, making it obvious he’s not trying to rain on her parade, or be mean, or anything bad like that. He’s using a certain inflection, though, like he’s suggesting something, maybe trying to nudge her in the right direction. “I don’t think there’s a girl out there that I’m ever going to be happy with, but…”

“I know you’re — you’re trying to help, but that… That’s not, like, an option for me.”

“Why not?”

She shrugs. She won’t look at him, either. “It’s… scary. And — how would I even… I don’t even _know_ anyone like that.”

Billy leans over, mostly so he can speak quietly into her ear; “There’s always more of us than you think. Even if you don’t meet anyone now, there’s always college, and you can always get the fuck out of Indiana anyways.”

If she were sober, he’s pretty sure she wouldn’t have leaned over to give him a big fat bear hug.

(He tries to remember to make it a point to be nicer to her in the future.)

*

“This is how accidents happen, you shithead,” Billy mutters as he’s pulling Steve up a small cliff by his hands.

Steve rolls his eyes. Billy’s been bitching for the past ten minutes of their hike. Steve gets it, because, yeah, hiking at three in the morning while drunk and stoned _is_ how accidents happen, but things in the cabin are fucking _weird_ – everyone’s at each others throats – and Billy’s the only person _not_ making him want to gouge his own eyes out.

Billy’s the only person who hasn’t snapped at him or given him a hard time. He’s been _kind,_ if anything, and frankly – Steve enjoys his company. Billy’s the one who _agreed_ to go hiking at three in the morning anyways. He could have called Steve a dumb ass and told him that they’re going to _bed,_ and he would’ve listened. But. Billy still agreed.

Which is why they’re about two miles from the cabin, standing at the top of a ledge that overlooks a river. Steve knows his way home, even drunk and in the dark, and he figures that, worst case scenario, they can wait until the sun starts coming up to head back.

They’re standing a little too close to each other. Every time Billy moves his hand up to take a drag off of his smoke, Steve can feel him move. Steve wasn’t intending to go on a hike to _talk,_ but he still winds up making a comment; “You smoke a lot.”

“So do you.” Billy nudges him with his elbow. To prove his point, he holds his smoke up to Steve’s mouth, and starts laughing when he smokes off of it. “See?”

“Well, if you offer, I’m not gonna say no,” Steve reasons with him. “I just mean, like, I don’t think I’ve ever seen you _without_ a smoke in your hand, honestly.”

“They help with, like… Stress. And sometimes I just don’t know what else to do with my hands, honestly.” Billy mumbles the last part like he’s making some sort of deeply emotional confession.

The first few months Steve knew Billy, he sort of thought he was – untouchable. Inhumanly _perfect_ . It’s not something that’s hard to think, either. He can plainly see when Billy’s putting on an act, now that he’s had enough chances to be alone with him long enough _to_ get to know him. He’s not a wordy person, or at least Steve doesn’t feel like he is, but he’s _soft,_ a little awkward, and kind of – funny, especially when he isn’t trying to be.

*

The first thing Billy does as soon as he’s able to get his car open is find his journal. It’s where he left it — inside of the casing of the console — and his handwriting is a little sloppy, since he’s writing fast and excitedly.

_#15 - 4.85 - Left this piece of shit in my car while I was gone. Don’t think anyone found it, so knock on wood I guess. Not that they would have, considering where I hid it._

_A lot of shit happened. I think I’m ACTUALLY friends with Him now, instead of just hanging out with the same people. I was right about cramming six teenagers into a cabin for a week – very bad idea. █████ & █████ were fighting the entire time, & █████ was being a huge bitch to everyone. I managed to avoid her by hanging out with Him and Him only, pretty much. _

_Drove from Indiana to SD and back with just us in the car, which was fun. We like the same kind of music so even if we weren’t talking, the music was still good. We shared a bed. Nothing fun happened because he is just so fucking straight, but – he’s cute in the mornings._

_We got groceries for everyone and a little part of my brain wanted to pretend we were – a couple, buying them together. Which is weird but it’s not like I’m ACTUALLY telling him that, so I don’t think it’s too bad. I know that in reality the cabin just didn’t have any food other than half a decade old instant coffee._

_We went on a hike at three in the morning, too. The cabin is so fucking scenic, and he knows all of the cool places to hike to. Hiking at three in the morning is idiotic but it was an excuse to spend time with him, and I’m greedy. I will use any excuse that I can to be alone with him._

_ALSO! I had a – talk? An energy exchange? Something with his ex-girlfriend. Went out for a smoke, caught her crying, and… It was a weird conversation but I’m pretty sure she’s gay, or something, and she totally knows that I am now, but I don’t think she’s the kind of person that’s going to go around telling everyone? I kind of want to ask her not to but – I also don’t know if she remembers anyways._

*

Billy’s lingering in the Wheeler kitchen, munching on an Oreo and eyeballing a magazine left out on the counter the next time he drives Max there for her bi-weekly _Dungeons And Dragons_ campaign. He’s sort of waiting to see if Steve happens to make an appearance, or if Nancy’s going to stop listening to Black Sabbath in her room and actually come say ‘hi’ for once. Black Sabbath isn’t a band he’d expect someone like her to like, but then again — she’s not the kind of girl he thought she was in the first place, _and_ she’s going through another breakup, so he can’t blame her.

Truthfully, he’s given up hope on seeing Steve this evening, and he’s given up hope on maybe bullshitting with Nancy a little bit when Nancy’s fucking _mom_ hits on him. One second, she’s asking him something innocuous, the next, she’s taken on a sly and suggestive tone and she’s _leaning in._

It’s a reflex to smile at her, in a way that he knows is nice and charming, but the words that come out of his mouth don’t match his expression. “I go to school with your _daughter,_ and there’s six middle schoolers in your basement. Go to a fucking bar.”

The look of mortification makes the creepy-crawly feeling that settles just beneath his skin worth it.

*

_#16 - 4.85 - █████’s mom hit on me, which means I’m literally never fucking setting foot in that house again. It would be messed up if a grown man hit on a high school girl (or it should be) so I don’t know why it’s not messed up for a grown woman to do it to me. I wonder if He ever had to deal with that shit._

Steve taps on the redacted name. Judging by the length of it, and the fact he can see the indent of a ‘K’ on the next page, he’s willing to bet that this entry is about Karen. Part of him half wants to call up Billy and tell him that, _yeah,_ Nancy’s mom is kind of fucking weird and hasn’t _stopped_ being kind of fucking weird, and that yes, he did have to deal with it a little bit, but that would also involve blowing his cover, so he stays put on the floor next to his bed.

*

Steve’s first reaction to Billy walking into stupid fucking _Scoops_ early in June isn’t to immediately be embarrassed. He’s pretty sure he’s never going to quite get over having to wear shorts _this_ fucking short at work, but when Billy strides in with all the confidence in the world, it’s the last thing on his mind. (He does find out a few days later that his shorts are the wrong size, and he just didn’t happen to notice it.) He doesn’t quite know how to describe the emotion that fills him when he sees Billy; it makes him feel _warm,_ happy, and he can’t help that he _beams_ at him as soon as he’s at the counter.

Billy has a piece of gum in his mouth, chewing in a consistent and steady rhythm. It’s only when he _slowly_ lowers his sunglasses and draws out a smug little, “Wow,” that he starts to think he should _maybe_ be a little embarrassed.

He deflects easily enough; “You’ve seen my bare ass plenty in the locker rooms.”

“You’re not gonna do the thing?” His eyebrows shoot up. They look as sculpted as they always do, and Steve wonders if he fills them in like Nancy does.

“The thing?”

“Yeah. Welcome me to my ice cream voyage, or whatever.” Billy’s tongue pokes through his cheek like it does when he’s trying not to smile. “Do it, so I can laugh at you before I ask you for free ice cream.”

“You can’t just come in here, make fun of me, then ask for free ice cream.”

Billy looks at the menu behind Steve’s head before responding. “You’re right, because I don’t even want ice cream. What I _want_ is a few scoops of raspberry sorbet.”

“Cone or cup?”

“Who the hell eats sorbet in a cone?” He asks as he’s pulling out his wallet.

Steve’s sort of glad that Billy isn’t _actually_ asking him for free shit. Not that he really _minds,_ but he’s not supposed to, and he’s already given his middle school lieges way too much free ice cream anyways. “You’d be surprised,” he starts as he’s grabbing a paper cup and his scoop from his belt. “Had a dude come in here stoned right before we closed last Wednesday. He wanted orange sherbet, mint chip, and, like, fucking butter pecan all in the same cup, and I had to stand here and watch as he mixed it all together and ate it.”

Billy’s eyes follow him as he moves to put three healthy scoops of the sorbet into a cup, despite the fact that he’s only going to charge him for one. “Are you one to judge, though? You like fruit chocolates.”

Maybe it’s stupid, but the fact that Billy still remembers that makes him want to start smiling. “That’s true, but… Still. He really had to have been stoned to enjoy it.”

Billy smiles at him. It’s one of his small smiles; the one he saves for when he’s truly charmed by something, the one that makes Steve feel a little special when it’s directed at him. It feels odd, striving for another dude’s approval, _yearning_ for it, even, but before Steve can think himself into a hole, he rationalizes it.

Billy is prickly and stand-offish. Any positive attention from him is more than welcome. Even if they’ve been friends — _actual_ friends — for three months.

*

_#17 - 6.85 - It’s like god took all the sunshine in the solar system and crammed it into his stupid goofy smile. I can't stop laughing at the Scoops uniform. No shame in making money but those shorts don't leave much to the imagination. (As if we both haven’t seen each other naked a hundred times in the locker room, though. Everyone says they don’t look but it’s bullshit.)_

_He looked kind of embarrassed, I almost felt bad for making fun of the uniform. He's kind of super cute when he's embarrassed like that? I can't tease him for too much longer or it will stop being funny but I'm going to milk it as much as I can._

_I honestly went there to talk to █████ but him working there was an extra treat. Didn’t even end up talking to her because I was too distracted by him anyways. I do need to talk to her though because we keep forgetting to hang out and I feel like she could be a good friend to have, especially since I have to suffer through next year without him & █████. _

*

_#18 - 6.85 - There’s something magical about micromanaging a bunch of children and forty year old parents. The pool here is pathetic. I feel like it’s not supposed to be this way. I’m supposed to be a lifeguard on a beach in California, not at a shitty public pool in rural Indiana._

_I thought ████’s head was going to pop off when he saw the tattoo. My fault for not wearing a shirt at home. He always said he’d make me cut any tattoos I got off, but he actually fucking let me win that battle. Color me surprised. Everyone I talk to think it’s stupid but I like it._

*

Number eighteen is the last entry Steve’s able to stomach for the night. He knows he could easily finish the journal in a night, but he’s _overwhelmed._ The first eighteen entries are his threshold, at least for now. He figures he may as well leave off on number eighteen, because he knows that there can’t be too many entries left before things get — _intense;_ at least, that _should_ be the case if memory serves him correctly, given all of this was literal years ago.

There’s a little ribbon attached to the journal — a red one — and Steve uses it to bookmark the page he’s on. He hides it in his bed frame, in the inch of space where his boxspring has shifted, just in case Robin decides to snoop in his room. (He’s pretty sure she doesn’t make a habit out of it, but his weed goes missing from time to time and she sometimes wears his old flannels, ones she couldn’t have gotten without rifling through his closet once or twice.)

Entry eighteen is — harmless. It makes him smile, thinking about Billy’s stupid smoking skull. He was so _proud_ of the damn thing. Steve obviously gave him shit for it, because he couldn’t help it, but secretly he’s always thought it was kind of cool.

He tries keeping his mind focused on the tattoo every time the mental subject in his head goes back to Billy, but later, when it’s _actually_ late and he and Robin are having a late night meal at the Denny’s up the road across from the truck stop, he can’t stop thinking about entries _fifteen_ and _seventeen._ It’s surreal, to read these things that are so – sweet, so beautiful, about himself.

And that’s the most baffling part — _it’s about him._

The cool thing about Denny’s, he thinks, is that nothing _leaves_ Denny’s. He can’t recall how many times he’s had late night meltdowns at Denny’s, because what happens in Denny’s fucking _stays_ in Denny’s. He asks Robin, “Do you think anyone could ever love me?”

Her response is about what he expected. She rolls her eyes. Finishes the bite of her hamburger that’s in her mouth. Tells him, “You’re a baby,” because she knows he doesn’t like being called an idiot, and follows it with, “Why couldn’t someone love you?”

Steve shrugs and avoids eye contact with her. “I dunno. It’s stupid.” If he looks at her, she’s going to _know_ he did something wrong.

“We’ve been over the stupid thing before, Stevie.” Robin reaches across the table, and places her hand over his. “You and your feelings aren’t stupid.”

“I _know.”_ He tries so, so hard not to look at her, but he glances up, and —

Either she somehow knows, or she can _tell._ “Did something happen?”

He really doesn’t mean to say it, but he can’t fucking lie to her, so he says it before he can think to not say it; “I kind of found Billy’s journal…? And — and I guess he’s, like, in love with me or something, and I feel _really_ bad for invading his privacy like that, but it is… It’s like, fucking impossible to me that someone could ever write such beautiful things, and — and write them about _me.”_

Somehow the fact that she doesn’t immediately shame him and tell him he _needs_ to get the journal back to Billy before reading any more of it doesn’t raise any red flags in his head. “He has a journal?” She smiles and chuckles a little bit.

“Can you blame him?” Steve picks a blueberry out of his waffle with his fork. “He’s, like, had to deal with a lot of shit the past few years.”

“That’s true.” She moves her hand from where it was resting on his so she can pluck the blueberry from his plate. “What are you gonna do?”

Steve shrugs. He has no earthly idea, and he tells her as much.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> mlm/wlw solidarity

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i added relevant tags to the tags but jic anyone didnt read or whatever, neil lashes out at billy later in the chapter and its not a super graphic scene but like it is there and sure does exist

As far as first jobs go, working at the pool isn’t too bad. Some of his coworkers are dicks, but that much is to be expected when you’re working with a bunch of other high schoolers. Heather is easily his favorite coworker, though.

He’s not _blind_ and he knows she has something of a crush on him. She blatantly flirts with him, and he’s noticed that she hikes her swimsuit up a little too high to accentuate her ass whenever he’s around. In an objective way, he thinks it’s kind of cute — more funny than cute, though — yet for some reason when she asks him to pick her up from her house a month into their employment, he doesn’t make the connection that she’s trying to ask him out on a date.

Heather is an incredibly sweet person. She’s the type of person who actually cares about how someone’s doing when she asks, and when she’s not working, she rarely speaks in a volume any higher than her inside voice. Hell — once a week, she leaves a plate of homemade cookies in the breakroom just to be _nice._

All of that is why he feels absolutely _gutted_ at the look of disappointment on her face when he turns up at her house in an old flannel with a six pack of Budweiser. He knows as soon as she makes that face that this was _not_ what she was expecting.

She’s all dolled up — hair curled and wearing a dress that would have just about anyone on their knees begging for a fucking taste. If Billy were a different person, a person that wasn’t gay, and if _Steve_ wasn’t unknowingly hoarding every single shred of adoration that he has in him, he might have indulged her.

He handles it as smoothly as he can. He holds up the beer, like he’s showing her, and he hates how _not_ confident he sounds when he says, “I think — I think I misunderstood what we’re supposed to be doing.”

“You’re kind of super blowing it, yes.” Her mouth stays open, just a little bit, as if she can’t quite believe what she’s experiencing. “I… _guess_ I could’ve been more specific…?”

Billy opens and closes his mouth a few times. He hears her dad raise his voice from somewhere within the house, asking her if she’s leaving or not because she’s letting out the air. After she rolls her eyes and steps outside, shutting the door behind herself, he tells her, “You really couldn’t have been more specific. It’s just, like —”

“Just like _what?”_ Heather doesn’t seem necessarily offended; exasperated, maybe.

“I’m _so_ not into you.” He can’t help it when he starts laughing. It’s not even fucking _funny_ — he’s just incredibly uncomfortable.

She scoffs and frowns at him. Her mouth is open wider, her disbelief increasing exponentially.

“It’s not because you’re, like, ugly or anything!” He places the six pack on the ground next to his feet, and gently brings his hands down onto her shoulders. He looks her in the eye as he continues; “You’re — you’re totally beautiful, man, I’m just… Really, _really_ not into you.”

“Are you trying _not_ to hurt my feelings? Because — you’re doing a _really_ bad job at not doing that.” She doesn’t take his hands off of her shoulders, but she does grab his wrists a little too tight.

It’s his fault, he thinks, for backing himself into a corner. He can’t see a way out of this without telling her, “I’m _super_ gay.”

It takes her a few seconds to process what he’s told her, but when she does, she slaps her hand over her mouth to stop herself from shriek-laughing. Billy ends up hugging her while she laughs, because she leans forward and he doesn’t know what else to do with his arms. She hugs him back, nice and _tight,_ and when she recovers enough to where she’s only giggling here and there, she speaks lowly into his ear to tell him; “Thank you for trusting me enough to tell me.”

“You’re not gonna tell anyone else?” He doesn’t let her go. Just in case.

She pats his back and gives him a little squeeze in her arms. “Nope. I just feel like a horse’s ass for not picking up on it.”

Billy shushes her. The hugging is turning into something of a game. “It’s totally fine, Heather.”

She gives him one last squeeze, and they sway in place for a moment. This hug is getting out of hand. “I’m gonna go put on pants and a shirt that doesn’t make my tits look like mountains, but we should totally still drink that six pack.”

 _Finally,_ they release each other from the hug, and — Billy feels fucking giddy. Light, in a way he hasn’t felt in — well, _ever,_ really. Heather still smiles at him like he’s a _person,_ like nothing’s really changed (aside from the fact that he’s officially romantically off the table for her) and it just fucking feels _nice._

*

Heather asks him about Steve. Not in explicit terms, because truthfully, he isn’t even sure if the two of them have ever even _met_ before, but she asks him if there’s any guys he likes, and he says, “There’s one, yeah.”

“What’s he like?” He can hear it in her voice that she’s genuinely curious. “Obviously you don’t gotta tell me who.”

“I wouldn’t tell you who, even if you asked.” _Not that it’d be that hard to figure it out._ Billy knocks back a few swigs of the beer in his hand. “He’s sweet, and he’s sensitive, and I’m pretty sure he’s straight. Not _totally_ sure, or I would’ve moved on by now, but… Y’know.”

“Maybe he likes both.” She shrugs and knocks back a few swigs of her own. “I do.”

And — _oh._ That’s why she reacted the way she did.

“You _do?”_

“I went to an all girls school before my parents quit paying for it,” She points out. “It’s, like — kind of unavoidable when you’re surrounded by pretty girls all day.” He can tell she’s just trying to be funny with how she explains it, and he can also tell that there _is_ some truth to it as well. 

*

Billy can’t _not_ write about his night in his journal. It’s the only thing on his mind once he’s alone in his car again.

_#19 - 6.85 - I’m actually fucking stupid. I thought ███████ wanted to hang out like friends, not go on a date. It was so bad I had to tell her. She was — surprisingly cool about it? Really, she just laughed, we hugged, and then went and drank beer by the quarry, because where the hell else would we do that? I vaguely spoke to her about a ‘crush’ and I hope she doesn’t connect the dots. Oh and she likes girls too and gave me blind hope that He might not be straight. Yippee I guess._

*

The shift in the household is subtle. Billy can’t think too hard about it, because he has work and a few too many household chores that he’s responsible for, but something about how Neil has been arguably pleasant, even despite the shitty tattoo (although, Billy did get smacked for that one,) raises a red flag. Something’s _off_ with Susan too, and he knows he’s not the only one that notices.

He has work on the fourth of July, unfortunately, and when he gets _home_ from work, he can’t shake the feeling that something _bad_ happened. The TV in the living room is _off,_ and the only noise he can hear in the house is the faint sound of Max’s radio, probably playing some juicy pop song that he doesn’t care for. He knows his dad isn’t home, since his truck isn’t in the driveway, and the way that Susan sits at the dining table sipping at a glass of chardonnay sits wrong with him.

He mumbles a greeting that she doesn’t respond to — “Good afternoon, Susan” — on his way to the kitchen sink to refill his water bottle, and after that, he seeks Max out. She’s been home all day as far as he knows, and he figures she’s going to have an answer to, “What the hell happened?”

She does. Her answer, “Your dad’s an asshole,” comes after she motions for him to close her bedroom door behind himself. She still says it almost in a whisper, because something like that getting said in this house is almost blasphemous. She explains further after he’s taken a seat on the floor underneath her window. (He’d smoke, but someone would smell and she’d get blamed for it.)

“You know my mom’s apple pie?”

“I’m aware, yeah. It’s fucking delightful.”

“Right? She made one, because she does on every major holiday, and I guess — I guess Neil was set on having a blackberry pie, because he took her pie from the counter, and dumped it in the garbage outside.”

“He _what?”_ To be fair, throwing a pie away is objectively at the bottom of the list of terrible things he’s done, but the way Susan reacts to it makes it feel somehow worse.

“Yep. Just fucking threw it away. Didn’t even say _thanks,_ or apologize after.” She toys with the corner of a page in the magazine that’s spread open on her bed in front of her. “I don’t understand why he’s the way he is. Even _my_ dad wasn’t that awful to her.”

Billy knows the answer to that. It doesn’t make Neil any less shitty, but he tells her, “Honestly, I think — I think something happened to him when he was in the military. My mom said he changed after he came back home, so…”

“I don’t know why he can’t handle his emotions like a fucking adult, though, or why you and _my_ mom have to bear the brunt of it. It’s bullshit. She _slaved_ over that fucking pie, and she _cried_ about it.”

“Seriously?” Billy makes a face, something bordering on confused. “Usually she fucking lays into him over shit like that.”

“I know!” Max throws her hands up. “I was expecting them to start yelling at each other, but she just started _crying_ and then he fucking left.”

“Jesus.” Billy digs his thumbnail into his water bottle. It leaves an indent on the plastic. He tries to rack his brain for something to do, because it’s about dinner time. Knowing Neil, he isn’t going to be home tonight, and he doesn’t trust Susan to make dinner after _that_ , which means it’s going to fall on _him_ to make sure they’re both fed. “She’s not making dinner is she?”

“Not after that. She’s drinking wine, which means she’s going to keep drinking wine until she passes out. _That’s_ how bad Neil pissed her off.”

(They end up splitting a box of Kraft Macaroni and Cheese for dinner. Billy lets Susan figure her own dinner out.)

*

_#20 - 7.85 - Haven’t used this thing to talk about my shitty dad in awhile. █████ slaved over an apple pie for the 4th but I guess ████ wanted a blackberry pie so instead of dealing with it like an adult he threw her pie away. She looked so defeated. Usually she lays into him and lets him have it when he pulls shit like this, but she was just… sitting there drinking wine? Something about this situation feels really wrong. I just can’t put my finger on WHAT._

*

Steve’s apartment smells faintly of cinnamon. Not real cinnamon. It’s the fragrant kind of cinnamon; the type in the air fresheners that you twist open and leave on your coffee table. Billy comments on the smell when he walks in for the first time, simply saying, “Cinnamon,” and Steve apologizes.

“Sorry. I just like how it smells. I’m not, like, _quite_ settled in and I thought air freshener would make it more… homey? Is that stupid?” He doesn’t move to close the air freshener despite the apology and explanation when he goes to throw his keys onto the table in his tiny living room. “We’re alone. I don’t have to pretend I don’t care about girly shit, right?”

Billy shrugs and offers him a tiny head shake. “I don’t think so. It’s, like… pleasant? The air freshener, I mean. Also, girls are cool. Nothin’ wrong with being a little girly.” He holds up a few strands of his hair, enough to show off his ear ring and obviously his hair. “It’s fun.”

Steve makes a soft noise — _pft_ — before he smiles just a teeny little bit. “Should _I_ grow my hair out? I think I’d look stupid.”

Billy tries imagining it. He uses his thumbs and index fingers to make a rectangle, with Steve in the middle of it. He tries being nice, but he starts laughing at the mental image of it, and Steve starts laughing too, even if he flips him off. “I think you’d probably look a little stupid.”

“You’re right,” he admits. “I don’t think I have the wardrobe for it anyways.”

“Well…” Billy plops down into one of the corners on the couch, grunting in the process. “You’re, like, a full adult now. Change your wardrobe. Grow out some ridiculous Rapunzel hair.”

“Who gets to be my prince charming?” Steve’s kneeling down on the floor now, rummaging around in one of his boxes for _something._ “Personally, I’m holding out for Tommy Lee.” (Something turns out to be an ounce of _pot_ — or what was an ounce before Steve picked all of the stems and seeds out of it.) 

“He’s too skinny to be saving anyone,” Billy tells him. He knows it’s stupid to keep going, because he’s being a little _serious,_ and Steve definitely thinks he’s joking. _“I’ll_ save you. I’m, like, pretty strong.”

“I do not doubt that.” His tone sounds a little matter-of-fact. “I’ve seen you being all heroic and shit at the pool, saving all the drowning children, or whatever. Unfortunately, man, as much as I love stroking your ego, I’m personally _really_ looking forward to getting high.”

*

Steve’s bed practically fills his entire bedroom. He knows he’s going to need to get a smaller bed at some point, or maybe a bigger apartment, but his plush mattress feels fucking _nice_ to flop onto when it’s late and he and Billy are starting to get sleepy. 

Sharing a bed with him is not new. It’s not necessarily old-hat, either, but it’s not new. He can’t quite describe the feeling bubbling up in his throat when they lie there staring at each other. He doesn’t have a name for it, doesn’t know if he ever will. Billy took a shower earlier, and without all the product he puts in his hair, it looks — softer. Longer. Makes his face look rounder, makes him actually look his age, and not like he should be a junior in college.

Steve really likes his little mustache. Even with as masculine as Billy is, his thin mustache is about all the facial hair he can grow. It’s — cute? He thinks? It’s a weird thing to think about a guy, and it’s probably _weird,_ definitely weird, for him to reach over with a finger to fucking touch it.

Billy keeps his mouth as still as he can, as if he’s afraid of disturbing Steve’s finger, to ask, “What are you doing?”

“Touching your little mustache,” Steve mumbles. He does not move his hand away. “I wanted to touch it.”

He startles when Billy’s hand drops onto his face, palm resting against his jaw. It makes his cheeks start to get a little warm. Billy _rubs_ his jaw with his hand, just a bit. “I can never stop rubbing my cheeks when I have stubble,” he says. He yawns, too, and his breath smells disgusting. Steve kinda likes it. “I only have to shave, like, once a week.”

“If I don’t do it every day, I’ll start growing this ugly, patchy little beard. It’s really bad.”

Billy grins at him, and withdraws his hand since Steve withdraws his own. Billy’s grin is wide enough that his eyes start to crinkle shut. “You should let me see it sometime.”

Billy keeps his hand between their faces, mostly flat on the bed, and Steve — wants to hold it. But that’s _weird._ That’s _not_ something he should want from Billy. He wants to hold his hand, but he settles for hooking their pinkies together. “Promise to keep your ‘stache for a while, and I’ll see what I can do in a few weeks.”

Billy’s pinky curls tighter around Steve’s; “Will do.”

(If they fall asleep smiling at each other and holding pinkies, they don’t tell anyone or talk about it.)

*

_#21 - 7.85 - He asked me if I wanted to hang out. We’re friends and all but I don’t think we’ve hung out outside of school or without our other asshole friends around, not counting spring break. Will check back in later._

_We got high as fuck. He has an apartment now so we didn’t have to drive somewhere else to get stoned, which was cool. Don’t know what the fuck that weird energy exchange was but I could’ve kissed him if I wanted to, and I wouldn’t be surprised if he would’ve let me. We were so high, though, so I don’t know if it would have counted or been a cool thing to do. I don’t want to be high when it happens anyways._

_He’s so cute when he’s high. He gets all giggly and smiley and it’s disgusting how adorable it is. I really wanted to kiss him. My lips were tingling because I wanted to do it so bad. I keep thinking what would happen if I actually did it. He probably would’ve been freaked out by it, but — what if? What could’ve happened? What if we kept kissing then fell in love and got married?_

_And since when am I a hopeless romantic? Fuck’s sake._

*

Billy’s moving a load of laundry from the washer to the dryer when Susan approaches him with a fistful of cash in her hand. She’s _drunk._ He can smell the wine on her breath, and even if he couldn’t, the way her cheeks are all red and her one eye has gone a little wonky would have given her away. Fear isn’t a response that he thought this situation would draw out of him, but it hits him like a sack of bricks when he sees her face. 

He _wants_ to leave.

He doesn’t do that, though, because in the past, Susan’s proven herself to be a _snitch,_ and he doesn’t want Neil on his case for ignoring her like _that._ He doesn’t smile at her and he doesn’t pretend to be pleasant, because that’s just suspicious, but he asks her if he can help her.

She takes one of his hands in her empty one, and crams the money in her other hand into his. Billy eyeballs the cash. It’s not a _ton_ of money, maybe fifty dollars collectively, and even if her words don’t make a ton of sense, he’s had plenty of experience dealing with his drunk friends, so he knows that she’s basically telling him to pack Max into his car and take _her_ school shopping.

He wants to tell her that she could do it herself if she could ever do more than sit on her ass drinking chardonnay when she’s not working. What he really says is, “Alright,” after shoving the cash into his pocket and going back to doing laundry.

He knows she at least trusts him, judging by the way she stumbles off instead of pestering him or making _sure_ he knows that it’s imperative he does this.

*

The subject of something being _wrong_ gets brought up again in front of the Crayola display in Melvald’s. Neither of them need any crayons or colored pencils or anything else from Crayola, but somehow the bright yellow packaging makes it feel appropriate for him to quietly ask, “Do you know what’s up with Susan?”

Max shakes her head. “I tried asking after the fourth, but she’s stuck on the idea of me being this little kid that can’t hear about what your dad does to her. Outside of… A lot of _bad_ shit, my guess is about as good as yours.”

“I wish…” Billy makes a face, and gnaws on the inside of his cheek. He grabs a pack of black ballpoints from the display next to the Crayola one, figuring it might be nice to use a new pen to journal later. That, and he likes writing in pen at school, and half of Susan’s fist full of cash is meant for him anyways. (And, to be fair — Billy knows he’s going to have to invest some of his own money into school shopping, because fifty bucks isn’t enough for the two of them.) He keeps going once he’s had a moment to contemplate what he wants to say. “I just wish things… were different. I don’t know.”

“Yeah.” She throws a ten pack of colored pencils into Billy’s basket. “Do you think your dad… I mean… I don’t know how else to say it, but… How he _treats_ you —” She shifts back and forth on her feet. “Do you think he…?”

“He was that way with _my_ mom… And like… “ Billy leans back a bit, and looks over the aisle. Jonathan’s mom is working, but she’s reading a newspaper and doesn’t look like she’s listening to them, so he continues. “I dunno. You’re smart. Even if I tried to be a normal person and be all like, nah, he probably doesn’t lay a finger on her, you’d still _know.”_

“I appreciate the sentiment, I guess.” She walks around the cart to peek at the notebooks. Melvald’s is such a tiny store — the school and office supply selection is scant. Billy plans to drive into the city so they can go to a bigger store with more stuff. “I gotta stop talking about this. It’s — it’s too much to think about.”

Max looks — almost bewildered when she sees Billy reaching for her, and frowns at him when he gives her a few awkward but supportive pats on the back. She goes from looking bewildered to frowning to snorting and holding back a laugh when he curls his fist up and slowly pulls it back towards himself. She’s trying not to laugh, too, when she mimics him by patting his shoulder the same way.

Billy rolls his eyes and mutters, “Fuck you,” to her under his breath. It’s evident in his tone he doesn’t mean it, and she starts openly laughing at him.

*

Neil steps out after dinner, probably for smokes or booze, Billy isn’t sure. He just knows he’s going to be gone for a bit, long enough for him to make a phone call. It’s stupid, calling _Steve_ on the phone in this house just to talk, but talking to Max about _Susan and Neil_ and everything _that_ implies — quite frankly, it bummed him out, and Steve has a way of making things feel better.

He hasn’t had to call Steve since he moved into his apartment, and the way he answers the phone has changed. He answers with, _“Hi, this is Steve,”_ sounding all _pleasant_ and sweet and it helps. It makes him smile.

He mimics his tone; “Hi Steve, this is Billy.”

There’s a noise on the other end of the phone — a breath — and Billy realizes he’s doing that thing he does when he hears something funny and lets out a single breath. He smiles like a doofus when he does it, too, and it’s — _perfect. “Hi. Why are you calling?”_

“Is it not enough that I’d like to talk to my friend?” Billy’s sitting on the floor underneath the phone, twirling the cord between his fingers. 

_“Well — that’s enough, totally. It’s just, like… You normally don’t call unless you need something, so I figured…”_

“Oh. You’re right, I guess. I’m, uh… Not a big phone guy.”

_“You’re actually calling to talk?”_

“I mean — yeah. My dad stepped out, so he’s not gonna eavesdrop, and my step mom’s passed out in her room. Doubt Max gives enough of a shit to eavesdrop either. We got a few minutes to chat if you’re not busy, or whatever.”

_“I’m actually not busy. I, uh — just put something in the oven, so I have, like, an hour before I’m gonna be busy destroying a frozen lasagna. Robin’s coming over to eat too, since her parents are… A thing. We’re not fucking, by the way, so don’t ask. Everyone keeps asking, and I’m tired of it.”_

“Well, good to know.” Billy chuckles. He knows they’re not fucking. He asked Robin when they finally found a chance to hang out, and she’d laughed in his face before telling him that she’d rather gouge her eyes out before even _looking_ at Steve’s ‘tube steak.’ Her words, not his. “I’ll take your word for it.”

 _“So… How are you doing?”_ Steve uses a weird inflection when asking that.

“Why are you asking it like that?” Billy twirls the phone cord once, twice. 

_“I don’t know, man. I can’t, like, see you, so I can’t gauge how you’re doing.”_

He has a point. “I mean… I dunno. I’m not having the best day in the world.”

_“See? If I saw you, I’d be able to see that.”_

“No, Steve. I don’t _see.”_

 _“Okay, shut up.”_ He’s giggling. _“Tell me what’s wrong. I wanna know.”_

“Do you want a real or fake answer?”

_“Dude, come on. Don’t be a pussy. I wouldn’t have asked if I was gonna be a dick about it.”_

“I mean, it’s heavy stuff.”

_“I can handle it.”_

“Are you positive?”

_“I’m positive I can handle it, yes.”_

Billy doesn’t even know how to explain it. It’s easier to talk to Max about it, because she _knows,_ so he doesn’t have to explain the context of it all to her, but the whole subject of _Neil_ is something he’s never really talked to Steve about, not outside of little remarks here and there in passing. He knows that Steve and Max _talk,_ because Steve’s probably a better brother figure than he is, and he’s also not stupid enough to believe Max hasn’t at least mentioned _something_ to him. Steve’s one of those people that always knows more than he lets on.

“My dad and stepmom are…” Billy untangles his fingers from the phone cord so he can pick at the callous on one of his big toes while he talks. “Things aren’t, uh… _Good_ between them, I guess. Susan’s been drinking a lot and my dad… He does this thing, when he fucks up real bad, where he’s _really_ nice for awhile and the fact that he’s been really nice for the past month, and the fact she’s been drinking a lot… Doesn’t feel right? And — and I talked to Max about it, ‘cause obviously she sees it too, and it’s… It’s, like, not fun to fuckin’ think about.”

 _“Right.”_ He sounds sympathetic. _“Is there anything you can do, or…?”_

“Truthfully? Not really. Not unless… _Someone_ goes to the cops, but even then… He has a purple heart, _and_ he’s a retired cop on top of it. No _cop_ or _judge_ is going to fuck with that.”

 _“Of course not. I know — I know of_ a _cop that would absolutely help, but… Knowing a cop doesn’t mean the DA is suddenly going to decide to fuck over a decorated veteran. Which is stupid. It’d be convenient if your dad was like mine, because everyone wants to fuck over a draft dodger.”_

Billy snorts. He’s met Steve’s dad, like, once, and the fact that he’s apparently a draft dodger isn’t a surprise to him. “They won’t do anything unless he does something _really_ bad. Smacking his wife and kid around… It’s nothin’ new.”

_“That doesn’t make it okay, though.”_

“You’re right.” Billy blows a hard breath out of his mouth, and it makes a strand of his hair fall into his face. “That’s why I haven’t had the greatest day, though. Um — also… You’re not gonna actually say anything, are you?”

_“No. I feel like… I mean, you’d handle it if it got too bad, right?”_

“I would, yeah.”

_“Okay. I trust you to do that, then. You should come over for lasagna, too, because that fucker is kind of large, and we all have shitty dads.”_

Billy would _love_ to go eat lasagna with Steve and Robin, but — if Neil gets home and he’s _not_ , he might _actually_ have to call the fucking cops, so he tells Steve as much. Steve sounds a little bummed, but also like he was expecting him to say that anyways.

*

Billy sits with the journal opened in front of him for twenty minutes, trying to think of what to write before the words start coming to him.

_#22 - 8.85 - All she does anymore when she’s not working is drink chardonnay and watch soap operas in her bedroom, but somehow I get pegged with taking myself and ███ school shopping? Horse shit. Maybe put down the glass, █████. Maybe then you could raise your own child._

_Things have been easier with ███ lately. We haven’t gotten into a fight since we moved, and I’ve been kind of trying to be nicer the past few months anyways. She’s stuck in this house too and I don’t want to be one of those miserable things someone has to deal with. That and it’s easier for ME if we’re on good terms._

_I called █████ on the phone too. I don’t like talking on the phone when ████ is home because he eavesdrops if he catches me but he stepped out for a bit and █████’s sloshed anyways and man I just fucking wanted to hear his voice. I am in fact a person that has feelings._

*

Robin and Heather join the _group._ Robin mentions working with Steve all summer, and everyone seems to _like_ her, so she starts sitting with everyone during lunch. Heather ends up moving from her normal group of girls to where Billy sits after a few weeks, too, muttering something about not liking any of her friends anyways.

Added, lunch with _just_ Carol and Nancy kind of fucking sucked. Carol has a tendency to both needle at him and hit on him when they’re alone, trying to get some sort of reaction out of him, and with Nancy around, they may as well _be_ alone, since her and Nancy can hardly make eye contact without fucking getting into it.

Heather and Robin are welcome additions. Billy knows it looks weird for him to hang out with the same four girls all the time, and he even throws a punch at someone for suggesting he’s _queer_ because of it, but — he can’t help that Steve and Tommy graduated like the losers they are.

*

School is different without basketball, Billy decides. It’s nice, having more free time to actually focus on school work (because not going to college isn’t an option) and having free time to just generally exist as a teenager, but he kind of misses having something to do that doesn’t require a ton of mental energy.

He also misses sneaking quick looks at Steve’s ass in the locker room, but that’s neither here nor there.

Billy shares plenty of classes with Robin this year, instead of just a couple, so it turns into a thing a couple weeks into the school year for her to come home with him a few times a week to work on schoolwork. She’s good company and that is a fact that Billy is plainly aware of. She’s one of the few people in his life that doesn’t put him on edge.

Robin is babbling, lying on her back on his bed, because she’s too high to help him with note taking for their history class, which is what he’s working on — notes. He’s sitting on the floor, only half paying attention to what she’s saying, and he almost misses it when she slips up. Really, he wouldn’t have heard her if she didn’t smack her hand over her mouth immediately after saying something about her ex-girlfriend.

Billy starts to wonder how many queer girls are supposed to be in his life. He can hardly bring himself to roll his eyes at her, because _god,_ he doesn’t give a shit, as he quietly tells her, “Robin, I like boys,” since he’s not, like, _quite_ in the mood to have a third in-depth conversation with another girl about being queer, at least not in the middle of taking notes for his history class.

“Oh, thank _god.”_ She sighs so relieved. “I don’t know what I would’ve done if you didn’t.”

“Right now, you can shut the fuck up because my dad’s home, and my sister is a room over,” is what he mutters to her. “We can talk later, if you want.”

“Can we talk now if we’re vague?”

Billy looks up again. She’s looking at him, but not lifting her head up, so it looks like she has three different chins. “How the hell could we be vague about that?”

“You like maple logs. I like glazed donuts. We can talk about it like that.”

Billy responds to her as if she were being serious; “I fucking _hate_ maple logs.”

“Fine — what sort of pastries do you enjoy, William?”

 _William._ Billy makes a face at that and rolls his eyes again. “You like donuts, and I like bagels.”

“There we go!” She sits up a little bit so she can gesture vaguely. “Are there any bagels that you like? Because, I can tell you about some donuts that I like.”

No one _knows_ about Steve. He’s not about to tell Robin about Steve, either, not until she spills about what girl it is she has a crush on, just so their destruction is mutually assured if someone gossips. “You first.”

She lies flat on her back again, fingers clasped over her stomach, resuming her staring contest with the ceiling. “There’s a girl in English that makes really good donuts. The one with all the freckles and the…” She holds her hands above her boobs, fingers spread out in vague dome shapes. “Donuts are always the best when a pretty girl with nice tits makes ‘em.”

“You suck at talking in code,” Billy tells her, even if he’s laughing. He knows exactly who she’s talking about, and he’s positive that if he wasn’t into dudes, he’d be doing anything to get up that same girl’s skirt. He’s gay, but he’s not blind. He gets why Robin would have a crush on her.

“Fuck you.” She’s laughing too. “Talk to me about your bagels. I told you about my donuts.”

It takes Billy a minute or two to work himself up to saying, “There’s this — one guy that makes really good bagels. You worked with him briefly during the summer, and… Don’t you work with him now? You still work with him, right?”

 _Now_ her head pops up. Her eyes are all wide, and the grin that spreads across her face is the biggest shit-eating grin he’s ever seen on a person. “I do still work with him, yes.” The smile seems as if it’s stuck on her face. “You really like his bagels?”

“If you give me shit about this, I’m never talking to you about bagels ever again," he warns her. "I just… think that his bagels are neat. You don’t, uh, happen to know if he likes bagels too, do you?”

Robin shrugs. “Fuck if I know. I mean — _literally,_ I know he does. I had English with him a few years ago and every fuckin’ morning, he came in _covered_ in crumbs. It was disgusting. But… I don’t know if he likes _bagels_ like you do.”

“Why would I care if he likes actual bagels?” Billy does care, and he knows that tiny little bit of Steve Trivia is going to come in handy at some point.

Robin shrugs again. “I’m… Do I have to speak in code about being, y’know…” She points up towards the ceiling. 

_God, she is so goofy._ “If we have to talk in code about being, uh, into bread rings, then we have to talk in code about grass.”

“Grass. Right. You’re smart.” She flops back down. “I’ve mowed so many lawns today.”

“Evidently, you have. You should _stop_ mowing lawns so you can help me with these fucking notes.” Billy waves his notebook in the air. “My hand is starting to cramp, and your handwriting is more legible than my stupid fuckin’ cursive.”

Robin pouts as she moves to sit up. “Oh, _Billy._ I _love_ your cursive, though. It’s so pretty. And — I don’t know why I didn’t figure out that you like bagels. No donut loving man has such pretty handwriting.”

That makes him laugh pretty hard, because she’s not wrong. He throws an empty beer can from the floor at her — not hard — and they’re both laughing by the time she pelts it back at him.

*

_#23 - 9.85 - That’s the third not-straight girl I’ve met. It’s been awhile since I’ve written in here. █████ came over so we could do homework, since we basically have the same schedule, and slipped and accidentally told me she’s gay. I, for some idiotic fucking reason, told her about having a crush on █████ (oops) but I don’t think she’s going to give me shit for it._

*

If asked, Billy would be able to name every single one of his responsibilities off the top of his head. He is expected to be aware of his responsibilities no matter what. Whether or not he’s asleep, awake, drunk, high, both, on the verge of a breakdown or a breakthrough; if he is asked, he will be able to rattle off a list of every single thing that is expected from him.

His routine every single week day is roughly the same, and any exceptions given are few and far in between. 

He wakes up at four thirty. He makes coffee for himself, and for Neil and Susan to reheat when they wake up. He has a smoke or two at about four thirty five while he waits for the coffee to brew, and after he drinks a cup of coffee, he showers and gets dressed. If Max is not awake yet and if he hasn’t been asked to do anything else, he gets as much homework as he can out of the way before he drives himself and Max to school. (They're both at the high school this year, but they don’t share a lunch period or any classes, so they rarely see each other outside of passing.)

In the afternoon, he brings Max either home, or wherever it is she needs or wants to be. Sometimes, if Steve’s busy, he’ll drive a few of her friends home too. If Max does, in fact, come home with him, he makes sure she isn’t hungry, and if Robin’s with him, he tells her to go hide in his room while he takes care of everything he is expected to take care of. He walks through the house to see if anything needs cleaned, swept, vacuumed or mopped, and if anything _does,_ he fucking does it, because if Neil sees _anything_ out of order, it spells misfortune. He hand washes any dishes that need to be washed after he’s walked through the house, and after that, he’s free to start working on homework.

Sometimes, if he doesn’t have a ton of homework, he’ll slip out for a few hours to have some time to himself, or maybe he drives to someone’s house to hang out and get stoned and forget about _shit_ for awhile. 

It is exhausting.

It’s fucking exhausting, and once in a great while, something slips his mind. This time, he forgets about doing dishes the morning before he drives up to Chicago for a night with Robin for a concert.

He’s on a high from the concert when he gets home, because, yeah, he may or may not have made out with and subsequently gotten felt up by _someone_ — a male someone — so coming home to Neil sitting in his recliner with a pinched look on his face and a beer already in his hand at two in the afternoon is jarring. If he’s drinking _that_ early, then he’s pissed.

Neil doesn’t stop him when he passes by the living room, though, so Billy assumes — _wrongly_ assumes — that’s going to be the extent of his retaliation; beer a little too early in the day, and a sour look on his face, just judging by how he’s _been_ for the past three months. As Billy tends to sometimes be, though — he is wrong.

He feels sort of like he’s watching the world through a filtered lens — like he’s possessing a body that is not his own — when Neil barges into his room to ream him a few hours later. It feels like he is witnessing someone else's reality. 

Neil hasn't hit him since June, not since the tattoo, but he still telegraphs his movements well enough. Billy could dodge him and could kick his ass if he wanted to. He's bigger, he's taller, and he's stronger, but _Neil_ is meaner. 

Susan is standing behind Neil, next to the secondhand lamp Billy has next to his bed, trying to get him to _stop;_ a rare moment of open defiance; and of all the fucking times Max doesn't get the hint to _get lost_ , it's now. 

There's a lot of shit that's going to be seared into his brain for the rest of his life, and both Neil's face as he reels back to throw a punch, the bulging vein in his forehead and the spit in his mustache, plus the look of terror on Max's face when he stumbles and subsequently drops to the floor are two of those things that he is positive he is not going to forget. 

*

_#24 - 10.85 - Neil broke my nose over two plates and a cup that I forgot to wash. Not too bad; it’s not fucked up looking or anything. I’m still out of it. It’s like — watching a movie, except the movie is my life and I’m just forced to watch it unfold before me? The last time he hit me was in June, I think. Smacked me for the tattoo._

_███ watched it happen. Which was super fun. I don’t think she’s ever seen him hit me like THAT before. I don’t think I’m ever going to forget the look on her face when he did it either. I feel like I failed, in some capacity. She was NOT supposed to witness that, but she wouldn’t fucking listen when everyone told her to get out._

_Ended up at █████’s apartment eventually. It wasn’t some — emotional thing? How to explain. It was not emotional. I know he was upset, but I wasn’t in a headspace to be having some big talk about my shitty dad, so pizza and a movie it was. Plus a ruined bag of peas for my nose._

Steve’s sitting in the corner of his bed with the journal open in his lap. Robin has coursework spread out across the floor in his bedroom. Her attention is drawn from her coursework when Steve _sniffles_ and starts wiping at his eyes. Her head pops over the edge of his bed, and she asks him, “You okay, man?” once they make eye contact with each other.

Steve presses the back of his bent index finger against the bridge of his nose, barely rubbing — something he does that keeps him _calm_ — and just says, “I need to stop reading this thing.”

“Did you find out about something you don’t wanna know?” 

Steve tucks the attached ribbon into the journal to mark his place, before gently closing it, and wiping at his eyes again. “No. He wrote an entry after his dad broke his nose a few years ago,” He starts explaining as he’s placing the journal on the side table next to his bed. “We never really — _talked_ about it. He just, like, showed up at my apartment covered in blood, and we were both too freaked out to have an actual conversation about it, but in _there,”_ He points at the journal, “he wrote about it.”

Robin is sympathetic. Steve can plainly see this. He’s waiting for her to tell him to mail the journal back to Billy, for her to _get onto him,_ but all she does is reach for his ankle to give him a supportive ankle squeeze. “Maybe you should stop reading for now.” _For now._

Steve pulls his leg away from her, opting to tuck his foot beneath his ass instead. He rubs the bridge of his nose again. He does not break eye contact with her. He asks, “Why aren’t you mad at me?”

“What are you talking about?” She sits up a little further, so she can rest her chin in her palm, elbow digging into his mattress.

“I mean, why aren’t you — _mad_ at me for invading his privacy like this? I figured you’d be the first one to fucking say something to me, but you haven’t said shit.”

She just shrugs. Like it’s nothing. Like she doesn’t know _something_ . Like she doesn’t _obviously_ have some sort of ulterior motive. “After what happened at Tommy’s, aren’t you curious?”

Steve squints at her. He leans forward, still looking right into her eyes. “There’s something you’re not telling me, isn’t there?”

She shrugs, _again,_ all vague and wishy washy, and even the way she gathers up her coursework, so she can leave and avoid any further questioning, is shifty. “I just think you should finish reading it.”

*

The curb in front of Steve’s apartment is a good place to smoke, Billy thinks. There’s a flickering street lamp a ways down the street, and an open field directly on the other side of the street. “Maybe ‘m just drunk, but that field is fucking creepy,” Billy mumbles to Steve, who’s sitting next to him.

Steve isn’t smoking, but when Billy goes out for one, he follows him, and they sit side by side. Steve nods, and the stupid devil horns on his head shift to the side a bit before he mumbles back an agreement. “I wanna drop acid and sit out here staring at it at some point. Tommy’s old weed dealer sold acid on the side, I guess, so we… _indulged_ a few times.” Steve leans on him, and yawns. He’s, like, kind of super drunk. “We’d sit in my bedroom staring at the trees.”

“We’re gonna have to start calling him Tweaker Tommy instead of Tommy H.,” Billy jokes. He reaches over to readjust Steve’s devil horns for him. Steve’s, like, pretty dedicated to the cause of his Halloween outfit.

Steve starts giggling at the joke. It’s soft and quiet, because it’s _late_ and he does, in fact, have neighbors. “Oh, he’d be _so_ mad if we did that.”

“I’m not one to talk, if we’re being fair.” Billy flicks his cigarette, knocking ashes from the tip. “My choices tonight were either come and get drunk with you and Robin, or go rail coke with — well, Tommy and Carol. I feel like —” Billy smacks his lips, and lets out a yawn of his own; “— I feel like they were trying to arrange some sort of… Sex thing.”

“They do that, sometimes,” Steve tells him. “Glad you decided to get drunk with me and our favorite lesbian instead.”

“You’d know, about Carol and Tommy?”

“Maybe.” Steve shrugs. “A few times. Summer before me and Nancy started dating.”

“Ah.”

“He likes watching.”

“Please don’t make me think about putting my dick in Carol while Tommy watches,” Billy mutters darkly. He shivers on purpose, and ignores the way his heart starts pitter-pattering at the way Steve laughs from it. It's nearly unfathomable to him that he can enjoy someone's laugh so much.

“Are you into Carol at all? I know she hits on you, a _lot,_ but you’ve never said anything about it.”

Billy snorts, loud and abruptly in response to what Steve just said to him. “Fuck _no_ I’m not.”

“How about Tommy?” He’s teasing.

Billy’s answer isn’t a lie; “I’m not particularly attracted to him.” Tommy’s cute, but he’s head over dick for Carol and he finds Tommy’s personality to be kind of grating anyways.

“Good, good.” Steve yawns, _again._ He loops an arm around Billy’s, and lets his eyes drift shut. “Obviously, I wouldn’t care if you were into him.”

“There’s a lesbian passed out on your couch. I’d _hope_ not.” He feels like one wrong _word_ and Steve’s going to figure him out, even when he's drunk like this. “Are _you_ into Tommy or Carol?”

“Carol’s pretty, and I _guess,_ objectively speaking, Tommy’s kinda cute, but… I dunno. Carol treats me like shit already, and Tommy’s just… I mean, he’s one of my best friends, and I heard somewhere that ideally in life, you’re gonna want to find a best friend you want to fuck, _but…_ Ew. Y’know?”

“I know, man. I know.” Billy chuckles, and flicks his cigarette butt into the street. He reaches over with his now free hand to touch Steve’s arm — some vague gesture of affection that he knows he can get away with right now. He doesn’t move his hand away after.

They both sit there in silence for a while. Steve opens his eyes eventually, because one of the times Billy glances at him, he’s staring across the street again.

Steve’s the one that breaks the silence. He gets _chatty_ when he’s drunk and can never stay silent for too long. “How’s your nose?”

There’s still bruising in the inner corners of his eyes and around his nose. It still throbs every time he bumps it. Hell, Billy still can’t wear his fucking sunglasses. “Getting better, but it still hurts.”

Steve moves slowly, gently pulling his arm away from Billy. He leans back, and Billy turns a little bit so they can face each other. Steve brings a hand down on Billy’s shoulder, and Billy _really_ isn’t expecting it, and he’s absolutely positive Steve’s only doing this because he’s half past plastered, but he says, “I wanna try kissing it better.”

Steve fucking winks at him, on top of it.

Billy rolls his eyes, barely managing not to call him a dork, despite the fact that he can hear his heart in his ears and his cheeks are burning. It’s far too dark for Steve to be able to _read him,_ to figure out that he’s embarrassed and nervous and giddy all at once. “If you’re _gentle,”_ he enunciates that word purposefully, “then I’ll let ya. But only because it’s worth a shot.”

A goofy, dopey grin breaks out across his face almost immediately. His hands are kind of gross and clammy because he’s been drinking since five in the evening, but Billy still likes the way his hands feel when they’re cupping his cheeks in the moments leading up to the nose kiss. Billy scrunches his eyes shut, partially because he feels like it’s _appropriate_ to do in this situation, partially because he can’t bear to look at Steve right now, since it’s just a _little_ too much, and partially because he’s trying to brace himself for some sort of clumsiness on Steve’s part.

The clumsiness never comes, though. Steve kisses the tip of his nose, and he’s just so damn _gentle_ about it, just like Billy asked. 

*

_#25 - 11.85 - Crush invited me and █████ over to get drunk after our respective freshmen finished trick or treating on Halloween. He got REALLY drunk so we sat outside for a while while he sobered up. We talked, mostly about dumb stuff, and I don’t know how or why he thought to ask if he could kiss my still very broken nose better, but I let him do it? He was being so sweet and cute. I couldn’t not let him._

_Un-fucking-fortunately it’s apparently one of those things that isn’t getting acknowledged, because we hung out last night and both of us acted like nothing happened. Maybe it was nothing and I’m just reading into it way too much?_

*

Billy normally keeps any thoughts he has about Steve _private,_ and if he has to express them in some form, he gets the journal out, but — Robin’s in his car right now, absolutely destroying an order of french fries, and she just speaks so _openly_ about girls that she has crushes on, so when she turns the conversation back around on him, asking, “How are things with Steven?” he doesn’t feel scared to honestly answer her.

“He tried kissing my nose better on Halloween. Other than that, things are going normally.”

“Was he flirting or was he drunk?”

Billy shrugs, and bites a chicken nugget in half. He talks while he chews. “It was after midnight, so he was, like, pretty fucking drunk, and you know what he’s like; all chatty, and everything.”

“He _does_ get pretty chatty when he’s drunk, doesn’t he?” She ponders. “Set the scene for me. Make it real.”

Billy rolls his eyes. He eats the other half of the nugget, and speaks through chewing a second time. “We sat out on the curb for a while to sober up, and we were just — talking, and then he _asked._ I was gonna say no, but he was… Don’t make fun of me, but he was being cute. I just don’t know what it meant to him, though.”

“Maybe he’s, like, totally in love with you, and you should kiss him on the mouth,” She suggests between eating fries.

“I feel like I can’t gauge him. I dunno.” He pauses, to gather his thoughts. “There’s been a few times where I feel like maybe something could happen, but I could also just be projecting my feelings onto our interactions.”

“What if you’re not projecting?”

“Don’t try talking me into pulling some gesture out of my ass, Robin,” He warns. “If something’s going to happen between me and Steve, then it’ll happen.”

“I’m just saying, _Billy.”_ Robin points at him with a french fry. “What if — _hear me out_ — but what if a grand gesture is what it _takes_ to make something happen?”

“Absolutely _not,_ Robin.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hi ive been stress writing because of *hand gesture* things


End file.
